She was pert and pretty, but most of all she was good. She was
a waitress, and I was a customer at a Black Sea resort in Nessebar, Bulgaria. It was the summer of 2001, a time when I wore a black eye-patch like Calico Jack, the pirate.
In a few months, I was to have surgery on the bum eye. The menacing patch was not an affectation, but necessary medical equipment. Otherwise, the so-called "good" eye saw spots and shimmers, sort of what I would imagine a 1960s LSD trip would have been like if I had tried the stuff -which, of course, I did not.
My second additional wife and I had our first of several vacation dinner at the seaside establishment, and through the luck of the draw, Julia was our waitress. Her English was fair, and she went out of her way to explain the menu that was in Bulgarian. She didn't hover over us like a plane in a holding pattern, but she did seem to be there every time we wanted to move the dinner onward. She was also good with our daughter who was with us, chatting her up as if the two were about the same age. They were not.
The next night we went back to the same restaurant, not because the food was extraordinary, for it was the same fare found in numerous eateries along the coast; greasy pork, scraggly chicken and beef too tough to chew. We went back for the service.
I was curious as to what makes the Julia-types tick, and whether they come with a "nice" gene built in, or is it an acquired trait. She was scurrying around like a water bug at the edge of a pond, hardly causing a wake. Amazing, I thought.
The second time we were not so lucky.
A young gentleman was our waiter. He was adequate, but clearly did not measure up to the previous night's attention. However, before long, we saw that Julia had started to direct our dinner service, even though we were not at her table. The service picked up measurably, so much so that the third night of our vacation-next to our last-was spent at the same restaurant. This time, Julia again waited on our table.
"How would you like a job in our company in Kiev?" I asked, out of the blue. "We could use a great receptionist." At that time, I didn't know whether she even typed. I didn't care. Computer skills can be taught in a fortnight. Some people, no matter how long they are at the job, never get the concept of service. They are tone deaf when it comes to the concept, even though they might be able to do calculus and play a piano like Sergey Rachmaninoff.
Here I, the old and odd fellow in the black eye-patch, the adornment that conjured up images of white slavery and bottles of too much rum, was asking the 22-year-old Julia if she would like to, in essence, run away and take a job as a receptionist in my company; and yes, in a far away and strange land. It was not that far-fetched, for she had a Russian mother and did speak perfect Russian, as well as Bulgarian; and, as noted, her English was passable.
She said she would like to join us - actually she gushed because I was offering her more money in a month than she would make all summer waiting tables in Bulgaria. But first she would have to ask her mother.
Remember. This is a corner of the world where women are bought and sold, where unscrupulous thugs kidnap young girls, take their passports and keep them as chattels. She didn't know me, even though I did come with a fairly respectable looking family in tow, and had ordered the right wine at dinner.
There was too much at stake. By this time, I was determined to hire Julia.
I asked her if I could go see her mother with her. I had this image of Julia attempting to describe to her mother this lecherous old man she met while she waited on tables. He wore a black-eye patch and spoke with the hoarse whisper of a Jack Palance. He was truly evil.
In the end, she was brought on, and worked first as our receptionist for three years, and then headed up the first months of what became known as The Willard Group's First Class Service Program. Hiring Julia was a no-brainer. She had service written all over her. She wore it like she wore a faint perfume, ever present, not overwhelming, but just so right.
When she left, I shed a crocodile tear, and went looking for someone with Julia's unique talents. I searched most of the globe, but in the end she, Irena, was right down the street, a waitress at O'Brien's Pub.
Rule No. 20101: The receptionist is the most important person in your office. Compared to her, you are a plain old tin of white lard, probably Crisco. She is the first contact; generally, you will have with a customer or a client. She can make or break you. You want everyone who calls or walks into your office to have the feeling that this receptionist and this office is the nicest, kindest and most knowledgeable contact they will make all day. You want your clients to know this, and you want those who serve you to know this. They will spread the word.
Whether her name is Julia or Irena, or whether his name is Bob or Igor, the reception desk anchors a spot in the office that should be the beginning of your own First Class Service.
|
